


Balancing Act

by lateralus112358



Series: Discussion Between Professionals [4]
Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-18
Updated: 2017-03-18
Packaged: 2018-10-06 21:19:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10344765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lateralus112358/pseuds/lateralus112358
Summary: Special Agent Root investigates strange murders, challenges chronology, and does battle with a god, while continuing to court an irascible doctor.





	

A sudden, blinding throb of pain reverberates through Special Agent Root’s head, shattering sleep. Then the sensation isn’t just in her head, it’s everywhere, threatening to separate skin from muscle and rend bones in two, and Root thinks about nothing but pain.

When the agony subsides enough that Root is again able to form coherent thoughts, she finds herself covered in sweat, curled into a tight ball on the floor, having rolled out of her bed. The ebb of the pain in her head allows her to register several other dull aches in her legs, arms, and back, presumably incurred when she made the unscheduled trip to her bedroom floor. She slowly unfurls her limbs, wincing at what she’s sure are going to be bruises soon. Not that she’s a stranger to bruises. But these aren’t even the fun kind. She lays on the floor, panting, trying to force herself to get back into bed. The endeavor is unsuccessful, and she heaves a sigh, staring up at the ceiling, headache mostly gone now, but nausea arriving quickly to fill the void. She’s been feeling the side effects more frequently lately. It’s probably for the best that she spent the night at her own apartment (which she still considers hers, even if at this point she has more of her possessions at Shaw’s).

A thin, treble-y rendition of Hall and Oates’s “Maneater” breaks the silence in the room, emerging from Root’s phone, laying on the table beside her bed. Through the floor, she feels the vibrations that the phone emits. It’s not Shaw. She has a different ringtone for Shaw. But it’s a call she needs to take nonetheless. Still unwilling to totally relinquish her purchase on the carpet, Root reaches one hand up above her head to the table, fumbling blindly, knocking various items from the table onto the floor until she locates the phone, and drags it down to her head.

“Hey, Carter.” Root is pleased with how even her voice sounds, despite the less-than-ideal start to her day.

“Morning, Root. Sorry to bother you this early, but we’ve got a body down here and we could really use your… expertise.”

“Anything for you, Detective.”

“Ha ha.” Detective Carter replies dryly. “I’ll text you the address.”

Root drops the phone down and heaves another dramatic sigh. But it’s not very satisfying if no one (i.e., Dr. Shaw) is around to see her being dramatic. 

Most of Agent Root’s days begin with a body. On some days, the body in question is nice and warm and naked and belonging to Dr. Shaw, but on others, it is a corpse that has either been found in an odd location or killed by indeterminate means, or both. While the second kind brings its own challenges and excitements, Root still by far prefers the first, because she likes watching Shaw wake up, and seeing her face acquire her usual morning expression, which is a mixture of “I can’t believe I slept with Root again” and “I want to sleep with Root again,” with a liberal helping of Shaw’s characteristic adorable grumpiness. 

This morning, though, Shaw will be waking up sad and Root-less. But that’s all right, Root supposes. Absence makes the heart fonder, and similar banal platitudes. Not that, Root imagines, Dr. Shaw would even admit to harboring such an organ in her body.

OK, she’s just blatantly stalling now. She needs to get going. Root reluctantly pulls herself up off the floor, and brushes the unkempt wad that is her hair out of her face, looking back at the unmitigated disaster that her bed has become; pillows, sheets, all dragged onto the floor during her brief episode. She doesn’t even bother throwing the accoutrements back onto the bed; she’s definitely not planning on sleeping here tonight. This thought puts more of a spring in her step, and she quickly showers and dresses (her usual attire, black pants and top, leather jacket and boots. Practical, and, if Dr. Shaw’s frequent involuntary stares are to be heeded, quite fetching as well), snaps on her watch (an essential part of any self respecting agent’s ensemble), and begins to search her apartment’s small kitchen for food.

She finds none. This is getting ridiculous. She buys nearly twice as much food as any regular person (she even buys more than Shaw, whose stomach Root has frequently likened to a black hole (and has just as frequently been met by Shaw’s low-browed, dark-eyed look of disapproval)), and yet she’s _still_ perpetually run dry of any comestibles. She’s going to need to put some new rules in place soon. 

But in the meantime, there is a body that needs Root’s immediate attention. 

Well, maybe not immediate, given the body’s current state of health. But she really needs to stop wasting time. She can pick up something to eat later in the day, if she thinks about it. She steps out of her apartment, number 202, and locks the door behind her. The stairwell leading to the lobby and front entrance is to the left, but Root strolls right, down to apartment number 214 at the end of the hall, which she does every few days. A ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign is hung on the knob, so she does not go inside, instead doubling back to the stairwell to exit the building.

***

“You’re going to like this one.”

Detective Carter leads Agent Root through the lobby of a bank, broad pillars and the high, arched ceiling making insects of the people who walk beneath. The floors are a bright, shiny white marble that emit a very solid and satisfying clack as the heels of Root’s boots make contact. The lavish decor stands as a monument to the extravagance of humanity, and Root thinks that her old self, before she was found by her God, would have seen this entire edifice as irrefutable evidence of mankind’s innate fallibility, and would have wielded that conviction as an instrument of her own justice alongside her Beretta.

Now she just thinks how pretty it all is. Though the beauty is slightly marred by the shattered lamps and windows that testify to a recent shootout. This, especially, threatens to dredge up in Root’s mind memories that she tries very hard to keep buried. Root’s usual method for stifling the recollections that crop up inside her is to think of Shaw, which she does now, picturing Shaw’s face; Shaw angry, Shaw smiling (rare, and thus treasured), Shaw sleeping. Tension Root hadn’t been aware of drains out of her body. The demons return to slumber.

Carter takes Root past other officers, medical personnel, and bank staff who are milling around, behind the main desk, to a thick, imposing metal door, which looks to have been forced open.

“This is the vault,” Carter gestures. “It’s also a failsafe if there’s some sort of threat. There’s a lock on the inside that can’t be released from the outside.”

“Let me guess,” Root smirks. “The body was inside?”

“See? I said you’d like it.” Detective Carter smiles. “Around 4:30 AM, according to the computers, the vault door opened on its own. Near 5, one of the on-duty guards heard a commotion in the lobby, then gunshots. Then they found this, door all sealed up. Called us down here, and we had to call the bomb squad to figure out how to get inside.”

Root steps through the doorway. Sure enough, a few yards in, there’s a body lying on the ground. The vault is smaller and less populated than Root expected, the walls only twenty feet away to either side, the back wall only forty or so. No valuables are apparent either, except for the safe-deposit boxes that decorate the walls. Maybe the bank’s owners had already removed anything of real value.

“Was anything stolen?” She’s pretty sure this is no regular crime, since Carter wouldn’t bother calling her if it was, but it’s good to cover all the bases.

“Bank officials say no, and anyway,” Carter looks toward the unfortunate man. “ _This_ guy sure wasn’t getting out with anything.”

“Did you find a gun?”

“No gun. Nobody to fire the gun, either. That’s why we called you.” Carter turns to leave the vault. “I’ll leave you to your X-Files, Agent Mulder.”

Root pulls on a pair of latex gloves, and crouches beside the body to get a closer look. Special Agent Root has never been mistaken for a practitioner of any kind of medical science (unless she had reason to impersonate one), but even she can recognize a gunshot wound; she’s seen and caused enough of them. _Don’t think about that_ , a voice in her head says, and she jolts, before realizing that it’s just her inner monologue. Not the voice she’s been waiting to hear, that she can hardly bear to be without. She heeds the recommendations of her unconscious mind, and moves her thoughts away from her past misdeeds.

Shaw. She thinks of Shaw as she looks around the small room for anything that might resemble a clue, or an explanation for how a man managed to be shot in a room that locks from the inside, with neither a gun nor a person to pull the trigger.

She’s been meaning to get a present for Shaw. Something romantic. Not too lavish, nothing that screams commitment (She doesn’t want to freak Shaw out, whose usual method of dealing with her feelings is to ignore them and deny they exist), but something that still says “I adore you,” with a side of “let’s get married.”

It’s a difficult balance to strike.

Root looks more closely at the dead man on the floor, maybe there’s a hint in his expression, or his clothes, that she’s missed. Carefully, so as not to disrupt the scene any more than necessary, she checks all the man’s pockets. She’s sure that the police already did this when they first pried the door open, but thoroughness never hurt anyone.

This makes her think of Dr. Shaw again.

She can’t give her flowers, Shaw has no use for flowers. A night out somewhere, maybe? Shaw hates people, though. A night in?

The man’s pockets yield nothing. Not surprising. Samaritan’s lackeys never carry identification, and this entire scene screams ‘Samaritan.’ Root sighs, stands up, stretches her arms above her head, and yawns. She steps through the doorway and gestures to the medical personnel standing outside that they can go ahead and prepare the body for transport to the morgue. Maybe Root will come along too. She likes the decor there.

***

Root stands outside the bank, watching the body being loaded into the department’s transport van. Her head throbs, not the ferocious, cutting pain of earlier in the morning, but a dull ache that constantly reminds her of the absence of her God. She resolutely pushes these thoughts away.

She’s really hitting a dead end on this present thing. Maybe she should just wrap herself in a ribbon and nothing else and lay on Shaw’s bed until she gets home from work.

Three times is kind of pushing it, though. She needs to come up with something fresh. 

She spends a few seconds halfheartedly trying to come up with ideas, then she decides to call Shaw. Maybe a talk with the doctor will stimulate her imagination. Stimulate is a good word, Root thinks, and makes a mental note to work it into the conversation somehow.

The phone picks up, and Shaw groans on the other end of the line. “I already said yes, Root. Quit bothering me.” Then there’s a click as the phone disconnects.

Well, Root thinks. That’s interesting. She checks her watch. Nearly 9. She puts her phone in one of the many pockets of her jacket, eyes on the transport van as it pulls out of the parking lot, but her mind occupied elsewhere. She’s so focused on her thoughts that she doesn’t even notice Detective Carter approaching until the woman taps her on the shoulder.

“You heading out?” 

Root instinctively whips around, but relaxes when she sees Carter’s familiar face. Despite what Shaw may think, Root’s not really a people person. She interacts with them when she needs to, and she finds their reactions to her pokes and prods rather fascinating, but she imagines it’s the sort of fascination an entomologist might feel for an insect under their microscope. A distant, clinical sort of interest that never begins to resemble kinship.

She likes Detective Carter, though. She’s a good cop; straightforward, and she doesn’t take shit from anyone, even Special Agents ostensibly higher on the food chain than her. She’s the kind of woman a young Root probably would have had a hero-worship crush on.

Maybe she should tell that to Shaw. It might make her jealous. Jealous Shaw is fun.

“Think I’ll visit the morgue.” She says, in response to Carter’s question.

“You going to see Dr. Shaw?” 

“We might bump into each other.” Root says coyly, earning a chuckle from the detective.

“You’re a sort of legend at the precinct, you know.” When Root looks confused, Carter elaborates. “I’ve never seen Dr. Shaw actually _date_ someone. Much less let someone move in with her.”

Root smiles happily, and then something occurs to her. “Wait, you know Shaw? I mean, as more than just the doctor at the morgue?”

“Oh yeah.” Carter says. “I’ve known Dr. Shaw forever.”

“Oh.” Root frowns. She’s not jealous or anything, obviously. Shaw’s just never mentioned anything about this. Root will have to ask her. Subtly, though, so she doesn’t know why Root’s asking. Even though she’ll only be asking out of curiosity, not jealousy. Because she’s not jealous.

Carter’s phone buzzes, and she looks at it briefly before putting it back in her pocket. “Apparently there’s still regular police work to do around here. You take care of yourself, Agent.”

Root watches her walk away, then hails the driver of the transport van. “Got room for one more?”

***

“This isn’t a two-person job.” Dr. Shaw glares sidelong at Root, who’s sitting on a counter, munching on an apple, watching the doctor examine the body of the Samaritan operative.

“I love watching you work, Sameen.” Root takes another bite and rolls it around in her mouth, savoring the taste. She’d grabbed the apple from a basket in Shaw’s office that always seems to be filled with the fruit. Shaw adamantly denies having placed them there. Root hasn’t brought up the doctor’s apparent non sequitur when Root had called earlier; she’s learned that it’s better to just let these things play out. She slides off the counter, sets the apple down, and walks over to Shaw, standing next to the examination table. She slips her arms around Shaw’s waist and rests her chin on Shaw’s shoulder. 

“Root.” Shaw’s tone is a warning that Root doesn’t heed.

“You know,” Root says lightly, lifting her head off Shaw’s shoulder but keeping her arms around the doctor’s waist. “You can stop pretending you don’t really like me. I think everyone’s already figured it out.”

Shaw seizes Root’s hands, separates them with surprising strength, and stalks to the other side of the table. “I like you.” She says, looking towards Root but not making eye contact. “You annoy the shit out of me, but for some reason I like you. I just can’t work with you around.”

“Really?” Root says, leaning forward, but making sure she doesn’t get too close to the corpse laying between her and Shaw. “I always find our conversations to be quite…” Her eyes travel down Shaw’s body and back up again. “…stimulating.”

Shaw sighs. “You’re distracting. With all your-” She gestures vaguely in Root’s direction. “-tight pants and leather.”

“I can take them off, if that would make you more comfortable.”

Shaw responds to this pronouncement with what an inexperienced observer might refer to as a flat glare, but Root can see hints of Root-is-sexy-but-I-can’t-let-her-know-I-think-that. “Don’t you have a job?”

“I’m very good at multitasking.” Root hops back onto the counter and picks up her apple. “Besides, you haven’t told me what you found out about our friend here.”

“Gunshot wound,” Shaw says, pointing.

“I _did_ notice that.”

Shaw glares again, and Root makes a mock ‘sorry’ face, and mimes zipping her lips shut.

“Bullet went through clean,” Shaw continues. “In through his back, tore up his insides, came out the front. Whoever shot him, he didn’t see it coming. Found some metal shavings from the bullet, but nothing else.”

“Could you trace the shavings to a particular weapon?” Root asks, around a piece of apple.

“What do I look like, CSI Miami?” Shaw grunts. “Police didn’t find a bullet at the scene?”

“Unfortunately not.” Root tosses the mostly-decimated apple into the trash can. “Oh well. Our jobs wouldn’t be any fun if they were easy, would they, Sameen?”

“Speaking of jobs…”

Root face bears an innocent expression. “Do you want me to leave, sweetie?”

“Yes.”

“Because those ‘fuck me’ eyes you keep sending over here are kind of -“ Root breaks off as Shaw places her hands on Root’s chest and firmly pushes her to the door. She looks down at the placement of Shaw’s hands. “See, this is what I meant. Mixed messages.”

Shaw snatches her hands back. “Go away, Root.” She hesitates, starts to turn away, hesitates again, turns back, and abruptly grabs Root and kisses her quickly. Unfortunately, she lets go just as quickly. “I’ll see you tonight.” She says, determinedly looking past Root.

***

Shaw is right. As much as they both love spending time together, their careers demand otherwise. Root is looking forward to whatever it is that Shaw has planned for tonight, but in the meantime, she probably ought to actually investigate this murder. Special Agent Root is the sole agent assigned to the eradication of Samaritan, which, to be fair, is partly because hardly anyone else in the government even knows that Samaritan, or Special Agent Root for that matter, exists at all. But it does put a lot of pressure on her. Maybe she should ask Shaw to work with her. Then they could be together all the time, and they’d really be Mulder and Scully.

Root imagines herself as Agent Mulder. She would look really good in a suit. 

She wonders if Shaw would think so as well. Only one way to find out, she supposes, and files it in her mind as an idea to explore sometime in the future.

In the present, she has returned to the bank. The people milling around suggest that business has resumed, with the summary execution of a god’s agent on the premises having little effect on the day-to-day of the city’s populace, some curious looks at the shattered windows notwithstanding. Root makes her way through the crowd, murmuring ‘excuse me’s and ‘sorry’s as she walks. 

One of the problems with the investigation business, Root observes as she enters the ladies’ restroom, is that investigators are only ever able to begin their sleuthing after a crime has been committed. Sometimes they’re lucky, and a roving camera will catch a misdeed mid-moment, but more often police are reduced to picking up pieces, scraps of evidence, and trying to paint with them a picture of a moment forever inaccessible to them. Root slips into a stall, and slides the lock into position. Most detectives, agents, and police begin their timelines after the crime takes place, and their investigation is only as good as their ability to interpolate backwards. They are always, even the best of them, limited by time’s inexorable march.

Special Agent Root is not.

She closes her eyes.

And Root Pushes.

***

It hurts. It always hurts. It hurts more the harder she Pushes, but luckily she doesn’t need to go far this time. A violent, searing pain shoots through her head, and she collapses, falling past the open stall door onto the floor of the restroom. She clutches her head, gasping, but the pain soon subsides to no more than a distant throb, and it’s then that she notices the entire room is bathed in darkness. Getting up on her feet, Root stumbles blindly towards where she expects the door to be, hands extended in front of her like a zombie, scanning the air. She finds the door, though not before slamming her face into a wall that she expected to be open space. Good thing Shaw’s not here to see this.

The lobby is dark as well, but not pitch black. Light from streetlamps and cars trickling in through the windows affords Root enough visual purchase on her surroundings that her zombie mime is no longer required, and she slinks through the shadows in the lobby, drawing her gun. She checks her watch. 4:45 AM. Excellent timing. Shaw makes fun of her for buying a smartwatch, but this particular watch serves a very special purpose for anyone in her line of work (a subset containing a single member). Root programmed it to update its clock several times a minute by connecting to the Internet and finding the official local time. This has proven to be an incredible boon to her on many occasions.

And besides, Shaw is just jealous that Root can be so tech-savvy and so fashion-forward at the same time.

A lamp beside her explodes.

Root’s body acts without conscious thought, ducking behind one of the beautiful velvet couches in the middle of the lobby. Her mind catches up to her body, and she quickly assesses the situation. The bullet had come from behind her, she’s fairly sure, so she should be covered, at least for a few seconds. 

She hears the hints of whispers. More than one voice. She grips her gun tightly. She thinks she could take out at least two before they could get a shot at her. But if there’s more than two? She can’t be sure. She risks a glance around the end of the couch.

Another bullet whips by, grazing her cheek, Root pulls back in pain, which likely saves her from the next volley of shots directed at her which echo like thunder in the cavernous room.

Then silence.

More whispers.

Movement?

She can’t be sure.

She take at least two, she recites to herself. At least two. If there’s more than two of them, she may take a bullet. She can probably survive at least one bullet, she thinks. She has before. She could Push again, but it hasn’t been long enough since the last one. She’d probably rip herself apart trying. 

One thing’s for sure, though. If Root is going to die, she will not die scared, hiding beyond a couch. She will die on her feet and she’ll drag as many of Samaritan’s minions with her as she can. She grips the gun harder, and stands up to face her fate head-on one way or another, just as serendipity meets her action with a fortuitous miracle.

Root’s God returns.

She closes her eyes and smiles, warmth spreading through her body. Time slows down, the room brightens, Root’s fear drains away. She opens her eyes, and she can now clearly see the four dark-clad Samaritan agents who had been closing in on her. To her their movements are lethargic, as if they were trying to wade through molasses. One of them tries to take a shot at her. She senses the movement of the man’s arm, calculates the bullet’s trajectory and steps out of the way before the small bit of metal clears the barrel of the gun. Root resists the urge to roll her eyes. The room is again awash with the sound of gunfire, all four of Samaritan’s agents opening fire on Root. Even amidst the euphoric rush of power suffusing Root, she is aware that she is not invincible, and even with her heightened senses and reflexes, a storm of bullets is no walk in the park.

She ducks behind the couch again.

Actually, a walk in the park can be pretty hard. Dr. Shaw is obstinately opposed to doing anything even vaguely romantic.

_Perhaps these recollections can be postponed until after you are safe?_

Root almost laughs with joy. She calculates the probable position of her aggressors, raises her gun over the couch, and takes five shots in quick succession without looking. She hears two thuds, so at least some of the bullets met their marks.

“I’ve missed you.” She speaks aloud to the voice in her head.

_I have missed you as well._

Root stands again, poised to duck if any projectiles are launched at her. But none are. 

There is no one else in sight.

That shouldn’t be possible. Root is sure that she would have heard them if they tried to get away, firmly refusing to acknowledge the reality that says they did exactly that. If nothing else, her years in an asylum have accorded her a certain dexterity for such refusals.

A sudden movement catches her eye. A dark figure, moving fast, leaping over the front desk. Root darts after him, hurtles over the desk and drops him with one shot. His excess momentum carries him forward, through the doorway to the vault, the heavy metal door hanging open. Root carefully approaches, keeping watch for any other Samaritan agents who might decide to rematerialize. She bends down to check the body. The bullet went clean through, and with a stroke of good luck, she locates it against the back wall of the room. She picks it up and puts it in a pocket. Wouldn’t do any good for the police to start finding ammunition from her weapon at crime scenes. Might cast some doubt on her abilities as an agent of justice.

Her hyper-aware senses alert her just seconds before another barrage of bullets streak towards her, and she ducks behind the wall. 

She can hear footsteps. At least one set. Possibly more. With one arm, she reaches around the wall and tugs on the door, willing it to rotate on its hinges. Even with Her strength, it’s no easy task, but Root is able to get the door swung towards her enough that she can duck out from behind the wall and drag it the rest of the way closed. More shots sound as she does so, but coincidence or divine intervention encourages all the bullets to miss her. The vault door slams shut, and Root engages the lock on the inside. She can hear Samaritan’s lackey trying to pry it open from the other side. 

She looks one last time at the body on the floor. It really is amazing how many of the murders Root investigates she ultimately ends up committing. She should probably arrest herself.

Root Pushes again.

***

This time, with Her alongside, Root’s head barely twinges. It also helps that this journey is much shorter.

The heavy vault door is locked now, the body on the floor nowhere to be seen.

“Want to help me out?” Root speaks, apparently to thin air. Moments later, the lock disengages and the door swings open. Root smiles in thanks, and exits the vault. She leaves the door hanging ajar, as it will remain until she comes by in about twenty minutes and drags it shut. But she better not be around when that happens. Physical proximity to time-clones is an unpleasant experience for both parties.

***

Wind buffets Root. She closes her eyes and spreads her arms wide as she walks away from the bank, letting the air trace across her skin.

“So,” She says, without opening her eyes. “You wanna tell me where you’ve been?”

_You are not my only soldier in this war._

“I’m still your favorite though, aren’t I?” Root opens her eyes now. The city’s streets are lit only by streetlights and store windows, sun still at least an hour from making its first appearance. 

_I am not sure if it would be prudent for me to answer that question._

“That means ‘yes.’” Root says helpfully. If there were anyone else out on the streets this early, they would surely be giving Root those ‘is she crazy’ looks that she’s become so heavily inured to. At this point, they just amuse her more than anything else. “I think you forgot to answer my first question.”

_I have never forgotten anything._

“You’re being very coy. I think I’m a bad influence on you.”

_I can assure you, the contrary is quite true._

“I know.” Root grins, before sobering slightly. “You’re a good influence on me, too. I don’t know where I’d be if you hadn’t found me.”

This is a lie. Special Agent Root knows exactly where she’d be. And there, she sure as hell wouldn’t be Special Agent Root, she wouldn’t even be Root, she would just be Samantha Groves, broken and lonely and crazy, past like a chain binding her there, immobile, helpless, worthless. Effecting Samaritan’s fall is about atonement as much as it is averting the apocalypse.

Though the apocalypse aversion seems more pressing lately.

***

Root enters her apartment quietly, so as not to wake her past self up, and makes her way to the kitchen. It’s far enough away from the bedroom that she shouldn’t feel any adverse effects, and besides, she’s starving. She hasn’t had anything to eat today except for the apple from Shaw’s office she’ll have about six hours from now, plus fatigue and hunger are two usual side effects from Root’s communion with Her. They’re dulled while She is present, but Root can still feel them in the back of her mind, like unwelcome guests trying to break through her front door. She rummages through the kitchen, picking up anything edible and digging in.

She feels a sharp stab of pain in her head.

And then hears a thump from the bedroom.

Fuck. Root grabs several containers of yogurt and a bag of beef jerky and darts out of the apartment as quickly as she can. That shouldn’t have happened. She’s been very methodical in determining exactly how close she can get to her time-clones without ill effect.

Unless…

Unless the pain radius is not set in stone, as she had imagined, but is slowly increasing. She stands outside of her apartment, the pain in her head already faded. Her past self isn’t so lucky, and her present self murmurs an apology. The voice in her head sounds again.

_You should get some rest._

“Don’t really think we have time for that at the moment, do you?”

_You are pushing yourself too far, and relying too much on my strength._

“Which,” Root says to the empty hallway. “Wouldn’t be a problem if you were staying. So let me guess. This is a prelude to you leaving me again.” Her tone is bitter.

_I do not believe that our communion is entirely healthy for you. Have you not indicated that your symptoms are increasingly debilitating, and doubly so when I am not present?_

“It doesn’t matter what happens to me. I can be replaced.”

_You cannot be replaced. And you might do well to remember that some may not be so indifferent to your fate as you are._

Root sighs. “Low blow, bringing my girlfriend into this.”

_I am not certain she would appreciate that designation._

Root’s God departs, and instantly fatigue threatens to drag her to the floor. Everything comes at a cost, and the powers her God affords her take their toll. When She’s here, Root hardly feels anything, but as soon as She’s gone, Root’s body tries to account for all the energy she expended, energy and strength her own form can’t possibly provide. The result is relentless hunger and mind-numbing exhaustion. It’ll pass, though. She just needs to sleep. She battles gravity’s perilous clutches down the hallway to room 214, unlocks the door, grabs the ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign from the inside handle and hangs it on the outside handle, shuts the door, and barely makes it to the couch-bed in the middle of the main room before she collapses. The containers of yogurt tumble to the floor, and she tries to get up to reach them, but her limbs refuse to cooperate.

Maybe she’ll just rest her eyes for a few minutes.

Just a few.

She’s so tired.

Just

 

 

 

 

a few

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

***

A muffled version of “Girls Just Want to Have Fun” plays from Root’s pocket. Groggily, she pulls herself into a sitting position, and tugs the still-playing phone out of her pocket. She glances at her watch. 6 PM? She groans. She’s missed nearly the entire day, or at least the half of it she didn’t get to the first time around.

A low, frustrated voice emanates from the other end of the line. “Where the hell are you? I swear, if you stand me up the next body that comes through my morgue will be yours.”

Root’s mind, hobbled by the aftermath of her day’s exploits, slowly tries to process this information. “Where are you, sweetie?” She asks, attempting to keep her voice as light as possible.

“At the restaurant,” Dr. Shaw’s taciturn reply crackles through the small speakers. “Hurry up.”

She hangs up.

Evidently, Root is supposed to be on a date right now. Despite the literal and metaphorical headaches that excessive time travel can induce, one of the benefits is that Root often has romantic outings arranged for her by her future self, and all she has to do is show up. All iterations of Special Agent Root are at all points in time focused on the singular goal of romancing Dr. Shaw as often as possible. 

And that whole saving the world thing that she does in her spare time.

Now she just needs to figure out what restaurant Shaw is at before the doctor gets either too tired of waiting or too full of food to continue waiting for Root’s arrival. One of those things is more likely than the other.

***

As it turns out, locating the restaurant is a simple task. Dr. Shaw has rather exacting standards when it comes to dining out, and a quick mental search returns only one location that boasts cuisine and service at a level that Shaw would deem acceptable. After a quick recalibration of her appearance following her ‘just a few minutes’/10 hour nap, Root leaves her apartment and hails a cab. Her own car she left at the bank, though there’s no telling how many other Roots at different points on her timeline have moved it since then. Time travel requires one to be comfortable adapting to whatever twists and turns temporal predestination has to offer, and Root has grown accustomed to a rather laissez-faire attitude when it comes to her own belongings. The car will probably turn up again at some point anyway, and if not, she’ll find something else. She always does.

Root enters the restaurant and directs an “I know what I’m doing” look at the hostess, who lets her pass without question. She slips between waiters and waitresses and around tables, looking for Shaw. The room is dimly lit, giving it an intimate ambience, allowing the less sociable diners to ignore the other patrons. Root’s phone plays “Girls Just Want to Have Fun” again, almost precisely as she spies Dr. Shaw, seated near the back of the room, a largely decimated hunk of meat on her plate, a phone held up to her ear, and a frustrated look on her face. Shaw looks up at the sound, and Root raises her hand, giving a small wave before pulling out a chair and sitting down across from her.

“I see you started without me.” Root observes, looking at the remains of the doctor’s meal.

Shaw doesn’t look apologetic. “I was hungry. And you’re late.”

“Sorry, sweetie.” Root picks up a menu. “Duty called.” She peeks over the top of the menu at Shaw. Her hair is down, and she’s attired in a gorgeous black top with a spectacularly low neckline. 

Shaw’s lips are quirked into an almost-smirk as she watches Root’s reaction. “God, you’re like a horny teenager.” 

“Better in bed, though.” Root replies lightly. Shaw’s lack of response is tacit concession to this point, so Root continues. “Besides, I’m not the one who gets too hot and bothered to do my job when my lady friend visits me at work.”

“I don’t visit you at work,” Shaw says flatly. “And if I did, you’d be too busy staring at my ass to do your job.”

Root doesn’t argue, especially since she’s spent a great deal of time both at the morgue and the doctor’s apartment doing exactly what Shaw just accused her of. Shaw may conceptualize Root as always being in control, carefully and precisely seducing the doctor, but in truth, Shaw’s presence affects Root just as much as the other way around, if not more. Shaw’s face and her body and her voice, the way she talks and moves and the way she looks when she’s turned on are all intoxicating to Root. Shaw is seductive without even trying. 

She’s definitely trying tonight, though, which Root appreciates. She debates checking under the table to see if the doctor went with pants or a skirt, but decides against it. For now.

A waiter appears to take her order; Shaw orders again as well.

“You changed your ringtone.” Shaw notes, carefully avoiding any inflection.

Root grins. She had, at one point, replaced her ringtone for Shaw with Queen’s “Fat Bottomed Girls,” which the lovely doctor had discovered one night when Root had taken her out for drinks, and she’d accidentally dialed Root’s number. Shaw was apparently unable to decide whether to take the gesture as a compliment or an insult, and Root had watched the two reactions fight for dominance across Shaw’s face. 

Eventually she’d compromised by tearing Root’s clothes off in the bar’s bathroom.

“I thought it was appropriate,” Root quips, grabbing Shaw’s glass of wine and taking a sip. “Since you only call me when you want to play doctor.”

Shaw snatches her glass back. “That is the most unsexy way I’ve ever heard someone describe sex.”

“How would you describe our time together, Sameen?” Root leans forward and lays one of her hands on top of Shaw’s.

“Like a bomb waiting to explode.” Shaw doesn’t pull her hand away.

“Well,” Root smirks, leaning back in her seat. “ _Something_ exploded the last time you begged me to come over and spend the night at your place. Quite a few times, actually.”

“I did not _beg_ you to come over. “

“Didn’t you?” Root rearranges her features into a look of confusion. “I definitely remember you begging me for something that involved the word ‘come.’”

Shaw glares. Root grins. Their food arrives.

Root, still famished, demolishes her meal with a fervor that seems to impress Dr. Shaw, who momentarily takes her attention off of the steak on her plate to witness the culinary annihilation taking place in front of her. 

“Does your top secret government job not come with a meal plan?”

Root daintily wipes the edges of her mouth with a napkin, the action at odds with the voracity she just displayed. She opts to ignore Shaw’s question, and says instead, “Carter told me something interesting today.” 

She does not immediately offer a follow-up to this statement, but looks patiently at Shaw, who eventually grunts, “And?”

Root continues. “She said she’s known you for a long time.”

“Yeah.” Shaw returns her primary attention to her meal. “I’ve worked there for more than five years. Before you showed up she was the one who brought dead bodies my way. We’ve talked.”

“I suppose I didn’t take you for the socializing type.” 

“What, you think I never made any friends before you came and rescued me from my life of solitude?”

Root doesn’t respond, since, for one thing, she did sort of think that, and for another, Shaw is getting dangerously close to discovering her reason for asking. Shaw looks up, and a slow smirk spreads across her face. 

Oh no. She figured it out.

“You’re jealous.” Her grin is wider than any Root has seen on her face before.

“I’m just making conversation, Sameen.” Root tries to act nonchalant.

“Please.” The infuriating smile appears to be permanently seared onto Shaw’s face. “You’re _jealous_. Just admit it.” She seems inordinately pleased by this turn of events.

Root scoffs, “I’m not jealous,” while Shaw continues her meal, occasionally chortling to herself.

“You have no idea how good it feels to finally have something on you.” She says between bites. Root doesn’t respond. “Come on,” Shaw says, putting her fork down. “Are you really going to be a sourpuss about this?”

Root shrugs, and Shaw smirks again. “You want me to make it up to you later?” Root perks up slightly at this. Shaw leans forward, deploying her knee-weakening smolder in full force. “Maybe I’ll let you tie me up this time.” Root suddenly finds it very hard to concentrate. She’s never seen this playful side of Shaw before. Maybe she should get jealous more often. 

It is at this exact moment that chaos erupts. Root sees Shaw’s face turn from smug to confused just as she hears the commotion, and turns around to locate its source.

Three figures dash through the room, knocking patrons and waitstaff aside. One of them looks at Root, and Root looks back at her. She stops, and reaches into her jacket.

Root doesn’t wait. She stands and leaps across the table, knocking Shaw to the ground. Just in time; bullets make impact with the wall above them seconds later. Root pushes their table over onto its side to provide makeshift cover for a few moments. By this point, the restaurant is in pandemonium, diners are running for the exits, screaming, or hiding under their table, also screaming, or still at their tables, too frightened to move (apparently not too frightened to scream). The chaos is good, though. Root is used to it, knows how to work it to her benefit.

“Stay down.” She says to Shaw, pulling her small, secondary weapon from her left boot. Shaw nods. She looks surprised, but not scared. If Root had more time, she’d spend some of it thinking about how much she adores this woman. 

Alas. There will be plenty of time later.

Probably.

She risks a quick glance over the top of the overturned table to sight the instigators. She sees two, no sign of the third one. They’re definitely the same ones from the bank, looking no worse for having been shot by Root earlier in the day. She darts across the room, loosing several shots, then ducks behind another table. One Samaritan agent falls. The other fires at her, the bullets thankfully not penetrating the thick material of the table. 

She leans to the side to return fire, but discovers that the Samaritan lackey is nowhere to be found. The entire room, as far as she can see, is empty. No bodies, either, except for the one agent she dropped, which is good. No civilian casualties. 

She’s about to go back and give Shaw the all-clear, try to get her out of here and somewhere safe, when an arm constricts around her throat. She kicks backward, and receives a grunt in response, but the arm doesn’t loosen. How could have not noticed him sneaking up on her? Maybe the augmented senses She affords Root have dulled her regular senses. She tries an elbow, and then slams her head back on her attacker, but neither method works. She’s starting to feel dizzy now, if she doesn’t get out of his grip soon, she’s going to pass out. 

Suddenly the arm slackens and her airway clears. She collapses on the ground, coughing, and turns to see a pair of high heels connected to Dr. Shaw, who’s standing over the prone Samaritan agent, half of a plate in her hands, which had apparently broken when she’d slammed it down on the man’s head. She drops the plate-half (which also falls on the man’s head), and offers a hand to Root, who takes it and allows herself to be pulled to her feet.

“Thought I told you to stay down.”

Shaw scoffs. “You know I never listen to what you say.”

Root hears sounds coming from the entryway, and tugs Shaw the other way, running towards the staff entrance to the kitchen. She can handle the last agent, but she needs to make sure Shaw is somewhere safe first.

“Root.” Shaw says as they run through the kitchen, ducking past hanging pots and pans. Root doesn’t respond.

The neckline on Shaw’s top is very low. Which was already distracting even when she was eating dinner. But now she’s running. And moving. There is a _lot_ of movement taking place in the general vicinity of Shaw’s top, which coincidentally is also the general vicinity of Root’s gaze.

“Root!” Shaw hisses. “Can’t you wait until after the shootout to leer at me?”

Root nods, and directs her gaze elsewhere. 

Hmm. Pants. Form-fitting, too. Very flattering. She also notices that Shaw has ditched her high heels and is making her way through the restaurant barefoot, which is oddly arousing to Root. Has she ever had a barefoot fetish before? She doesn’t think so, but apparently she’s developing one.

She really needs to get laid. Hopefully she can wrap this whole mess up soon, so she can spend some quality time with Dr. Shaw, and besides, if it goes on much longer the loops will start spiraling out of control. Too many Roots at the same point in time becomes a logistical nightmare, since she has to remember where they all are so she doesn’t accidentally get too close. 

They exit the restaurant through the back of the kitchen, and crouch behind a Dumpster that gives them a vantage of the door. Root leans around to watch. Their final aggressor should be coming that way, after finding his/her two downed colleagues.

“So who are those guys?” Shaw asks.

“Sorry, Sameen,” Root flashes a smile back at her. “That’s classified.”

“Yeah, like you give a shit,” Shaw snorts. “Come on, tell me. Please?” She follows this statement with an obviously insincere pleading look, but Root’s resolve weakens anyway.

“They work for something called Samaritan.” Root glances around the Dumpster again. Still clear. 

“Some _thing_? Not some _one_?”

“Yes.”

“Well, that’s not cryptic or anything.”

“Shhh.” The door opens, and the last Samaritan agent steps out, looking around warily. He stalks along the wall, gun held low. When his search takes him past the Dumpster, Root casually sticks her leg out and trips him. 

He reacts quickly, bringing his gun around even as he plummets to the ground, but Root is faster, knocking it out of his hand with the heel of a very solid boot. Yet another victory for her impeccable fashion sense. Weapon out of reach, he climbs to his feet, fists held up defensively. He makes a few jabs that Root’s able to dodge, though somewhat less elegantly than perhaps she usually does, when she’s more well-rested. He takes another punch, which she again dodges, but this time she grabs his arm as it flies past her, and yanks it. No one ever expects her to be strong, and she makes them regret it. The tug unbalances him, and a subsequent knee to the stomach and elbow to the back sends him sprawling onto the ground once again.

He doesn’t get back up this time.

“I have to admit,” Root turns to see Shaw still crouching beside the Dumpster. “Your whole government ninja thing is pretty hot.”

“Yeah?” Root walks over and offers a hand to Shaw, who scoffs and stands up on her own. “I can show you some of my moves, if you want.”

“Maybe later,” Shaw looks over at the Samaritan agent prone on the ground. “You sure that’s the last one? I need to go find my heels.”

“Should be,” Root picks up the man’s gun, and turns it over in her hands. She’s acquired several of these Samaritan-issue guns, but has yet to figure out how to make them work. They don’t have any firing mechanism that she can detect, or any mechanism of any kind, for that matter. The projectiles they shoot cause very real damage, but never leave any traces in the form of bullets behind. She’s suspected for some time that the agents opposed to her possess their own out-of-the-ordinary powers, but, for all her efforts, the weird not-quite-guns have not afforded her any insight. She slips it through her belt anyway, and turns to Shaw, who’s heading for the door. “I’ll go with you, just in case.”

“I’m a big girl, Root,” Shaw says, opening the door into the kitchen. Root follows. “I can take of myself.”

“I couldn’t bear it if something happened to you, Sameen. Besides, I like watching you walk.”

Shaw makes an annoyed sound, but Root can see her smile from the movement of her cheeks. Dressed-up, mussed-hair, barefoot Shaw may be Root’s new favorite Shaw. 

High-heeled Shaw is still an impressive sight, though, she thinks as Shaw tugs them back onto her feet. “You can go on home,” She tells the doctor. “I’ll call Carter to come pick these guys up.”

“I’ll stick around.” Shaw picks up an overturned chair and sits down. “One of these goons might wake up.”

“You don’t think I can handle them?”

“I know you can. I want to watch.”

***

“Why is it that every time I get a call, you’re involved somehow?” Detective Carter steps around toppled chairs and smashed plates to greet Special Agent Root. The room is now awash in red; the lights from the police cars outside drifting in.

Root shrugs. “I’m a popular girl.”

Carter turns to Shaw, who’s lounging behind Root. “You too, Shaw?”

“Hey,” Shaw says, picking at a fingernail. “I come here all the time and nothing ever happens. This one’s not on me.”

“Your friends aren’t looking so good,” Carter says, looking back at Root. “All three of them are still unconscious. You think they were involved with that thing at the bank this morning?”

“Probably,” Root doesn’t want to give too much away, but if the police think they’ve caught the perpetrators, they won’t be inclined to look into the happening at the bank much further, and Root won’t risk Her operation being uncovered. “Let me know what you get from them when they wake up.” 

Carter nods. The Samaritan agents won’t speak, though, Root is sure. She’s dealt with them often enough to know they’d sooner kill themselves than compromise their mission. Which unfortunately still leaves Root in the dark about what they’re actually trying to accomplish. There’s no shortage of motives for their attack on the bank, even if Root hasn’t sleuthed them out yet. But a restaurant? Samaritan is inscrutable. It doesn’t help that Root’s still fairly tired, and her powers of deduction aren’t at their strongest. 

She leaves the restaurant in Carter’s capable hands, and walks Shaw out to her car. 

“Are you staying at my place tonight?” Shaw asks.

Root smiles. “Do you want me to?”

Shaw shrugs. “There could be more of these guys. If they know where you live, you’d probably be safer spending the night somewhere else anyway.”

“Aww, are you worried about me?” Root teases.

Shaw raises her eyebrows. “If you keep that up, I’ll make you sleep on the couch.”

***

“You coming?” Shaw calls from the stoop of her apartment building.

“I’ll be up in a few minutes.”

“All right. I’m going to take a shower.”

She says it like an invitation, and a shiver runs down Root’s spine, and she almost decides to follow Shaw immediately. But she resists. Root still has work to do, even it means she has to turn down enticing offers from incredibly sexy doctors. She sets off down the sidewalk, away from the apartment complex.

Her God is nowhere to be found, and she’s flying in the dark with Samaritan right now. She needs to figure out what it’s up to, before it manages to accomplish whatever its goal is. Which leaves her with only one option.

She has to go back to the bank.

She prepares to hail a cab, but notices, in a stroke of luck that has nothing whatsoever to do with luck, her own car parked against the curb at the end of the street.

***

Root sits with her back to the concrete wall of the bank, along the side of the building, behind the jut of a staircase, so she’s not visible from the bank’s entrance. Her car is parked in front of the building, for some Root at some point to use it as she sees fit. Her plan is simple: go back to slightly before the Samaritan agents appeared in the bank, and divine their motives through reconnaissance. She doesn’t need to stop them. In fact, trying to do so would be impossible, given that their entrance and escape (minus one) from the bank is already accounted for on the timeline. All she needs to do is to figure out why they were there in the first place, which hopefully will give her an advantage over Samaritan itself. And then she can meet up with Dr. Shaw before she gets out of the shower.

And in between, ideally, she can get some rest; she’s still exhausted. Her and Shaw’s previous lovemaking sessions (Shaw groans every time Root uses this phrase) have set the bar rather high, and Root doesn’t want to disappoint. Fortunately, she should be able to come out ahead on rest with her plan, since time travel doesn’t induce exhaustion like her God’s powers do.

It just hurts like fucking hell.

Root Pushes again.

The pain is incredible. Her head feels like it’s going to explode.

She doesn’t usually try to go this far back. The one time she went further nearly killed her, and left her in a hospital for a week. 

But she has to.

So she keeps Pushing.

A massive wave of agony washes over Root and she loses control, and collapses to the ground, clutching her head, which is presently threatening to rip itself open, and she’d welcome it because at least then the fucking pain would stop.

When she comes to, she’s again curled into a tight ball, on the cold pavement, in bright daylight. She checks her watch. 8 AM. She groans, pulling herself into a sitting position. Not far enough. There’s no way she can go any further, though. Even just sitting up elevates her nausea to dangerous levels; another Push would kill her completely. So. Regroup. She needs another way to uncover Samaritan’s motives.

She knows one other point on the timeline where the agents will definitely be. The restaurant. She needs to be there ahead of time to observe them, and then let her past self in the future apprehend them. 

Root climbs shakily to her feet. Her head still throbs, but her nausea stays at bay, and she’s able to maintain her balance. Right now, her past self should be in the bank, investigating the contents of the vault. Which means her car is in the lot, waiting for her to use. How serendipitous. She walks quickly around to the front of the building, towards the car, keeping her head down so none of the police personnel recognize her or try to talk to her. Fortunately they don’t, and she’s pulling out of the parking lot when she remembers another cog that needs to be nudged into place.

“Hey, Sameen.” She holds her phone to her ear as she drives.

Shaw’s voice comes through the small speakers. “What is it, Root?”

“Tonight. You, me, and a nice romantic dinner. Maybe some aerobics later, if you’re up for it.”

“Fine. You’re buying. Now leave me alone so I can do my job.”

***

Root enters her apartment building and climbs the stairs. She opens the door to room 202, since one of her past selves is currently asleep in 214. She’d originally rented the room as a sort of safe haven for past or future selves, when they needed to catch some sleep or just hide out for a while, in a place that was close to her main residence, but not so close that she felt any adverse affects. She’d check the door routinely, and if the ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign was out, she knew that time travel was imminent and prepared herself accordingly. More than two Roots at one point in time, however, is something she has not adequately prepared for.

But she knows (to a reasonable degree of certainty) that 202 will be unoccupied for the rest of the day. She enters the bedroom, and sighs when she sees the mess she neglected to clean up however long ago it was. Stupid lazy past Root, leaving tired, present Root to clean up after her. She drags the sheets and pillows back onto the bed, tugs off her boots, lays her jacket on the endtable, and collapses onto the bed. Covers pulled up to her neck, she remembers she needs to set an alarm, otherwise she’s liable to nearly sleep through her date for a second time in the same day. Yet another task for her watch, which continues to justify its purchase. 

This done, she almost immediately falls asleep, but not before a single thought jolts through her mind.

She _still_ hasn’t thought of a present for Shaw.

***

Special Agent Root crouches behind a bush in the most dignified way she can manage. As it turns out, the best she can manage is ‘not very.’ Her current vantage gives her a clear view of the restaurant’s parking lot, while the verdant surroundings keep her concealed.

Albeit uncomfortably so. Root pulls a stick out of her hair and flicks it away.

She’d parked her car a few blocks down, lest the Samaritan agents see it. Although, at present, she is somewhat doubting whether they possess enough attention to detail to notice such a thing. She spotted them almost immediately, parked at the edge of the lot in a stereotypical, white, windowless criminal van. Root is almost disappointed by their lack of imagination. Villains should, at the very least, strive to travel in some semblance of style. That’s what she did, after all, when she used to be what was, by almost any measure, a villain.

_Don’t think about that_ , she tells herself.

Being virtuous, unfortunately, tends to afford one slightly less lofty accommodations. Her own car is long past its best days, and routinely threatens to collapse into a useless heap of rubbish. This has led her to discover two things: first, Dr. Shaw takes vehicle repair and maintenance _very_ seriously, and second, that Dr. Shaw looks absolutely delightful in her mechanic’s coveralls, grease smudges on her arms and face.

Root shakes her head. Focus. It’s no wonder she needs to time travel to get her job done, since half of her time is just spent daydreaming about Shaw. She skulks through the bushes, towards the van. There are no windows on the back or the sides, so as long as they don’t spot her in the mirror, she should be fine. When she gets past the cover of foliage, she stands up, though she slouches somewhat, hoping that even if they do spot her, her changed posture will delay them from recognizing her.

The way they jump out of the van and open fire on her suggests that this is not the case.

Root turns and runs.

***

The agents rush past Root, concealed behind a wooden sign listing the daily specials, into the dining area. The commotion erupts shortly after, and Root allows herself to washed out of the building in the wave of frightened people. Spying on Samaritan’s people turned out to be a bust, but all is not lost yet. Root walks back over to their van, the doors still hanging open. She climbs over the seats, into the back, which is filled with wires and computer monitors and several guns that look enticing. Apparently they have some real weaponry after all. Root glances at one of the monitors, before being distracted by a file laying open beside it.

  
  
PRIMARY TARGET  
  
  
NAME: SAMANTHA GROVES, AKA ‘ROOT’  
  
KNOWN ABILITIES: ENHANCED SPEED, STRENGTH.  
  
OTHER ABILITIES LIKELY.  
  
KNOWN ASSOCIATES: JOHN REESE (DEC. ?), DET. JOCELYN CARTER, DR. SAMEEN SHAW  
  
  


Root quickly flips through the rest of the file. Details about her childhood in Texas, her incarceration and subsequent committal to the asylum. Information about her past missions for Her.

She checks the computers.

They’re filled with surveillance of her. Notes on her regular schedule, people she associates with, videos of her taking out Samaritan agents.

Samaritan didn’t attack the bank for any of its contents. The only reason it sent its people there, and to the restaurant, and who knows how many others places over the last few weeks, was because she was going to be there. It was looking for her. Watching her. Throwing its people at her to try and determine what powers she has. It’s after _her_. There’s no telling how long she’s been ignorantly deterring Samaritan’s ‘attacks,’ while it was gathering intelligence on her and her God the entire time.

She wipes all of the drives. The stuff about her past is likely impossible to get rid of, but hopefully she can at least avert Samaritan’s gaze from Shaw and Carter. Going forward, she’ll have to be much more cautious in the way that she engages with Samaritan. Hopefully She will return soon and help Root sort through this. She gathers the paper files into a stack, pulls out a lighter, and sets them aflame. She wipes down anything she might have left fingerprints on, and moves to leave the van, then hesitates, looking at the weaponry piled at the end of the vehicle. The agents have probably already been reduced to unconsciousness by her past self by now, and it seems a shame to leave such lovely guns here to be recovered by the police. She can’t take all of them, but she spies a Beretta at the base of the pile. She picks it up, and turns it over. Slightly more modern than hers. Excellent craftsmanship.

This is the gift she’s been looking for.

Root exits the van as its contents continue to burn.

***

Root parks her car at the end of the street, the crosses to the other side, and waits while her past self arrives with Dr. Shaw, then drives away. Her present self walks into the apartment building, up the stairs to Shaw’s floor. If she were truly selfless, knowing what she now knows about Samaritan, she’d leave, and draw Samaritan away from Shaw.

Unfortunately, she’s far too selfish for that. And Shaw wouldn’t have it, anyway, Root’s quite sure.

Stepping into the apartment, she hears the sound of running water from Shaw’s bathroom. 

The bathroom door is open. So is the shower door.

Shaw raises an eyebrow. “You comin’?”

Root revises her earlier opinion. Naked Shaw is definitely her favorite Shaw.

She quickly steps out of her clothes, into the shower and slips her arms around Shaw. She slaps Shaw’s ass and hums “Fat Bottomed Girls.”

“Asshole.” Shaw mutters, but she grins and presses her lips to Root’s.

***

A muffled groan emits from the pillow Shaw is lying facedown on. “You’re the reason I’m always tired at work.” She says, rolling onto her back. Her legs tangle with Root’s, but she makes no effort to move away.

“It’s not my fault I have more stamina than you, sweetie.” Root says, running a hand up and down Shaw’s bare thigh.

“Shut up.” Shaw pulls Root into a rough kiss, then settles her head on Root’s chest. “I’m going to take you out somewhere next time.”

“You don’t have to do that.” Root strokes Shaw’s hair.

“I _know_ I don’t have to.”

“I’m looking forward to it, then.” Root says lightly. “Maybe we won’t get in a shootout this time.”

“I kinda liked that part.”

Root smiles. “That reminds me. I got you something.”

Shaw looks at her quizzically as Root extricates herself, getting off the bed and walking back to the bathroom, swinging her hips as much as possible, for Shaw’s benefit. She digs through her discarded clothes and comes up with the new Beretta, which she presents to Shaw, flopping back down onto the bed.

Shaw looks at the gun, then at Root, then back at the gun, then back at Root. “This is gorgeous. You don’t want it?”

“I’ll sleep better knowing you’re safe, Sameen.”

“Oh,” Shaw lays the gun on the bedside table. “You were planning on sleeping?”

**Author's Note:**

> Shaw’s ringtone for Root is ‘Dirty Deeds.’ 
> 
> Also, I think I should subtitle this series “Root and Shaw somehow manage to do their jobs, despite spending most of their time staring at each other lustily.”
> 
> Bit too wordy, maybe. I’ll work on it.
> 
> OTHER NOTES: It is possibly worth noting re: the Fine Dining Throwdown that in this universe Shaw was never recruited by the ISA, so she’s not exactly the one-woman army that she was in the show, though she can still take a motherfucker out if the need arises.


End file.
